The Speciation of Me
by QuinnLark
Summary: My favorite word was fuck. It always had been; always would be. I took my coffee black - French-pressed - and my wine dry and red. I took Jake with a shot of whiskey; Edward with a mimosa. I was stuck between a mix of worlds - theirs and a hazy one I could never see clearly - and it was all a gigantic mind-fuck.
1. Prologue

The Speciation of Me: In Matters of Indulgences and Abbreviated Lives.

Fuck.

Every word I type washes into oblivions of syllables. And here am I, alone in an apartment above a small Korean market place owned by Mr. Kim and his wife. I oftentimes hear them arguing in the late hours, and wonder if one of them would be kind enough to end the fight … or shoot themselves … so I might have a single, solid, blissful night's sleep. But they won't; they never shut up long enough to give me peace.

Peace: the word itself a foreign idea to me, sounding no more familiar than the language Ann Kim screams at her husband.

Regrettably, I can hear their voices vibrating through the floorboards, so I sit at my typewriter – circa vintage 1986 – and stare into a space of swirling smoke rising from my cigarette.

American Spirits: the brand of the late night crowds, meandering out of dive bars as they close at 2 A.M. My brand of people as well as smokes; I wrote about this kind of thing in my old life. Nowadays, I find myself an insomniac - thanks mainly to my neighbors, but also to the scattered thoughts flittering and littering my mind - and a wordless blob formerly known as a writer.

God. I fucking hate LA. This town is a joke; full of has-beens and wannabes, who always know _so and so_ from "The Industry." Usually that certain _so and so_ is a distant cousin of a friend's great aunt who lives on Fairfax and worked at an ad agency in the early 70s. Very cliché and irrelevant to say the least.

The truth which finds me in the heart of the infinite drama which is this insane city is jolting. A once promising career as an environmental columnist for a mid-sized publication out of Denver, has led me to this wallowing world of willowing palm trees and pinched, overdone noses from highly paid doctors of beautification. When my life was forced to uproot from the pleasant loft I owned, looking over the sprawling prairie and bowing before the majestic Rocky Mountains, I dug my toes into that red clayish dirt like a grove of aspens and fought until my skin was raw. Transferring to Los Angeles was never on the list of things I wanted to do. Ever.


	2. Chapter One: Memory-shaped Cumulonimbi

Chapter One: Memory-shaped Cumulonimbi

The Metro station at Hollywood and Vine doesn't smell as bad as some of the others. I can't handle the stench of piss and vomit. It hits me hard, reminding me of my life a decade ago when New York was the city of my life and hope. The streets and Subway constantly reeked of that vile combination, but I never smelled it back then — I was too in love with the idea of the city and the lights and the buildings. I was too in love with _him_, as well, and he made everything but bubbly and cigarettes and book signings disappear.

In New York, New York, I'd spent the better part of two years kissing ass and proving I had absolutely zero self-respect as I allowed myself to be paraded around as the face of the young publishing company that had signed my first novel. I was their bitch. But I was still in college when they published me, and I'd given whatever remained of my youthful, nineteen-year-old innocence to the striking RJ Token. Between that and dropping out of college with dreams of dollar signs and fountain pens in my eyes, what else would I be to them?

My move to Denver followed on the wings of their collapse into oblivion. Really? Really? Why had the literary-gods allowed my humiliation to go without recompense? None of the big guys from the major publishers even offered to buy out the remaining years of my contract when Simpson & Token went belly-up; this was likely spurred on by the way I shattered the floor to ceiling window of RJ's penthouse with a crystal vase when he announced the company had failed, he'd be moving back home to South Africa, and we were breaking up.

Denver, however? Denver gave me a second chance at love and life and writing. It was a big, open prairie-land filled with cool breezes and mountains and creeks to sit beside. Denver also had Emmett McCarty — a bright-eyed cowboy with dimples and curls and a blue pickup truck with an eight-foot bed. With Emmett, I learned the significance of country music, beer, gun racks, the Stock Show, and Ariat boots. His brother owned the local newspaper I wrote for. Emmett loved me well, and my summers were filled with him and his family ranch near Steamboat Springs. Horses and wildflowers and pines.

The day he left for bootcamp, my gut ached with anxiety. Something was wrong, but beyond the normal nerves, I couldn't pin down what it was. He smiled with those dimples and kissed me hard, telling me we'd get married as soon as he came home from training.

We never got that far.

He was deployed right away, and was killed nearly as fast. The suicide bomber got passed the security forces Emmett was helping train and blew himself and my fiancé away. I hated Mosul; I hated Iraq; I hated the fucking war.

I stuck around Denver for five more years, allowing the pain of Emmett's death to fade with time. His family always treated me like the daughter they would've had, and kept me from being a complete social imp by dragging me to barbecues, ball games, and paying a pretty penny to keeping Emmett's Broncos season ticket in my name. I put down my roots there with them. Deep and heavy, they grew in my heart and mind until they became the family I'd never really had.

A violent shift began the day they introduced me to one of Emmett's cousins: Marcus McCarty. He was a nice guy, and we chatted for a while about life and hobbies and the upcoming football season. But then he smiled. And Emmett's McCarty-dimples were in that smile, and I knew nothing was left for me with them.

That never meant I wanted this transfer. When I presented Garrett McCarty with my resignation notice, it was meant as a finality, but met with something I never expected — a raise, and the request to head up an extension office in Los Angeles. No. No, no, no. Not LA. Not a big city again. My mind screamed this over and over at me, and I may have said them aloud to Garrett as well. However, his insistence upon the fact that I was his late brother's girl and thus he felt a responsibility for me leaded my feet and forced me into submission.

I cried in the car to DIA, passing the cloud art and gigantic blue devil-bronco looming before the airport.

I sobbed quietly on the plane, and drank one too many miniature Bacardis.

But I bawled — wailed — when I got to my new home in Los Angeles. It lacked the prairie comfort I longed for, or the city charm of the Big Apple. It was dirty floors and cold showers. And it was all mine.

"The red-line train to Union Station is now arriving," the intercom announces, dragging me from my memories. "Please stand back from the edge of the platform." The rushing wind, pushed from the movement, hits me before I can see the lights of the train. I allow passengers to exit the car before stepping aboard and finding a seat beside an elderly man with a crooked smile.

Earbuds in and phone up: I'll pretend no one else exists. Wouldn't that be nice.


	3. Chapter Two: Fucking Stories and Stuff

Chapter Two: Fucking Stories and Stuff

Venice is the only good place in Los Angeles. Yes, it's full of bums and a few tourists — though I think they're a little afraid of it — but something about this place calls to me. I like to sit around here and look at people, and pretend for a few hours that I'm not that wordless blob. I like to pretend to write, pretend I'm my old self again.

This is also where I met Esme. My only friend in this concrete jungle.

After the initial panic attacks when I first moved to this ridiculous place, I took a long, hard look at the dusty old manuscript sitting on my desk. I think I took a deep breath before I did it, but it's all a little blurry; I decided to throw myself to the wolves - better known as literary agents. They're vicious things. They rip your words apart with gnashing teeth and spit you back out with nothing more than a million disappointments to keep you warm at night.

But Esme is different. She saw something in me, or so she says.

When I received an email notification about a new literary agent from the writer's magazine I'd subscribed to on a whim, I pushed it aside instantly. There was no way in hell I'd be working with another startup company. I'd been burned way too fucking bad for that — third degree emotional and mental burns.

How I managed to both send her a selection of my manuscript and then agreed to meet for coffee at a little spot smack-dab in the middle of Venice Beach is a mystery. Be it aliens or spirits or tequila, I'd been possessed the night I reached out; it couldn't have been me. I told her, over the sound of ocean waves and an old man playing the saxophone for pocket change, that I had zero interest in working with the company she and her husband had created on a whim. It was nothing personal, I promised, I was simply over being at the mercy of the whims of others. She told me she appreciated my honesty, and asked only one question - damn her: what did I have to lose? I'd already admitted _Loose Leaves_ had been little more than a cup holder in the last decade, and her point was stupidly valid.

I didn't sign anything with her that day, other than an agreement that I would give her the first three chapters and she would not plagiarize my work. Esme wanted a chance to find me an editor fit to my style and tastes; she'd do all of this to show me she was worth my time.

She — an agent — worth the time of a lowly writer. I should've driven to Vegas and bet all my money at the roulette table that day, because there was obviously something amiss in the universe, and I would've won millions.

It felt good to be pursued. Really great, actually. But I knew it wouldn't pan out.

Until it kinda did.

When she called me up a week later and asked if she and her husband, Carlisle, could take me to dinner, I expected to receive the USB drive with the chapters back and an excuse about realizing agent life wasn't for her. When I got there however, I was met with smiles and a feast fit for kings. Not only had she found me an editor who was renowned and anxious to get ahold of the rest of the manuscript, but they wanted to offer me a contract with a signing bonus.

I may have laughed in their faces at that one. Actually, I definitely laughed in their faces. "Literary agents don't give signing bonuses," I chided.

"You're right," Carlisle spoke, cutting off any words of argument about to come from his wife's lips. "A typical agency would never offer a signing bonus, and a new agency would be crazy to do so." I gave him an annoyed smirk and began to stand from my seat, but he held up a hand to stop me. "When Esme's father died, he left her a bit of a fortune, but we didn't need the money, and the will stated that Esme was to use the money to do one thing and one thing only: follow her passions."

"And your passion is to be a literary agent?" I directed the question back to the subject of the discussion. I hated men answering for their wives.

"My dad was a novelist," she told me, the candlelight of the restaurant dancing off beautiful hazel eyes glistening with unshed tears. Fuck. I hated crying. _Don't cry, woman_, I wanted to scream. "He taught me to love books and care about the authors who wrote them. I wanted to be an author when I was young, just like him, but I was never any good. He had the poetic words and flowered phrases. Literature went on the back burner. I went to medical school, met Carlisle, and got married. It wasn't until we were told we couldn't have children did the need to immerse myself in books begin to stir once more."

She's an extraordinary women, Esme, and she almost had me completely sold with her words of passion. It was the next thing she said that did it for me.

"I read your novel," she said.

"The first three chapters aren't all there is—"

"No," she interrupted. "_Casting Spaces_." My first book. Simpson & Token. The story of fantasy and sweeping romance, and everything I hoped my future would be; nothing it really is. "If you wrote that well ten years ago, what have you got inside yourself now? What are you capable of? When did we last see a blossoming Hemingway, Fitzgerald?"

"That may be pushing it a bit," I laughed.

"Why? Because you're a woman?" she wondered.

"Because it's 2014, and people don't write that way anymore," I corrected.

She studied me for several long moments. "Then what have you got to lose with me?"

Fucking saleswoman.

So, for five months, Esme has been forcing — encouraging — me to edit, rewrite, edit, discuss the changes with her and Rosalie Brant, the editor, and rewrite again. And it's wearing me the fuck out. My fingers ache from writing all day at work - topics I must research and study and put into print; I can't find the will inside myself to writers words at home. Add the yelling Kims to the picture and you've found the recipe for the greatest writer's block in modern history.

As I rise from the depths of the Los Angeles Metro subway station at 7th Street, I take a moment to adjust my headpiece and smooth out my dress. I'm here for networking; that's what Esme said when she requested — demanded — my presence at the Halloween costume gala. The Industry haa descended upon LA, and I must take every opportunity awarded me.

I will be published again, but putting myself out there for their scrutiny and potential let down is as painful as these vintage heels.

"There you are, Bellissima!" Esme's soft voice calls out to me over the roaring piano music of a jazzy number the band is playing. A Gatsby-themed party is appropriate for a gathering of authors, publishers, and literary agents, I suppose. Esme is dressed to the nines in a black and white and gray flapper dress and an elaborate boa. And I feel like — actually, I feel pretty fucking good. I'm wearing turquoise silk draping unbiasedly in art deco mastery. Pearls adorn my hair and neck and hang everywhere important.

I'm greeted with a saucer glass of champagne, bubbling and tickling with the lovely promise of numbness.

"There's a handful of producers here," Esme whispers — yells — into my ear.

"Producers of what?" I ask stupidly.

I know this question is stupid because her annoyed face makes an appearance and twists her lips in a way that speaks louder than words.

"Producers of film, Bella." Her hands are on her hips now, and her own champagne is dripping to the floor beside her right foot. "You know, movies. The guys who read nice books and decide they suddenly want to make a film about it. Sound familiar?"

"Vaguely," I answer, and she's not a bit impressed with my attitude. Such is fucking life. "Is there anything to eat here?"

"Taco bar one level down," she says.

I snort. "Oh, very Gatsby-esque." I'm a sarcastic bitch, but still make my way down the stairs toward the tacos, leaving Esme with a promise of meeting up as soon as I calm my hunger.

Thankfully, the taco bar is fully stocked with all the goodies, and I fill a plate to its max capacity before turning toward the stairs from whence I came.

But I stop. For glory and wonder and all things fucking sex and panties on fire, I stop. Because there on the landing, in ginger-haired splendor is the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

And his eyes haven't left my face.


	4. Chapter Three: Falling Apart & Together

Chapter Three: Falling Apart and Together

I'm not usually one to worry about my appetite in front of men. If I want a fucking croissant, I'll eat a fucking croissant. But I put down my overflowing plate of taco fixin's and run my hands over my dress to remove any crumbs or blemishes that may tarnish the picture I make. His eyes follow my hands over the curves hidden gracefully by the deco dress I wear. I bite my berry-painted lip and run my hands up and down once more. His eyes are priests and my body the goddess of their worship. I feel it. I see it. And it's so fucking good.

"I see what you're looking at." Esme's voice, so suddenly whispering in my ear, jolts me violently from my stare down with the strange man. Well, stranger anyway. I'm not sure whether or not he's strange yet.

"Fuck, Esme," I say, my eyes flying back to the stairs and willing him to be where they left him. He's not there of course; in fact, he was probably nothing more than a figment of my bubbly-induced headiness.

"Nope, you haven't touched your champagne yet," Esme answers. Shit. I said that out loud. "He's real flesh and blood."

"Who is he?" I ask, rectifying the situation at hand by downing a glass of Dom Pérignon.

Carlisle appears beside his wife to my left, and another champagne is held before my face to from the right. "Liam Edward Masen. Edward is fine," the owner of the hand announces. I startle, spinning around so fast the pearls draped in my hair smack him solidly in the face. "Ouch."

It takes a moment to process the fucking situation. The stair guy is in front of me, I hit him in the face with costume jewelry, and I may have also knocked the champagne out of his hand and all down the front of his dapper suit. Not, not suit. Tuxedo. Fuck.

Edward Masen is bloody hot. Fuck isn't even the right adverb for the amount of heat coming off this man. He's as fiery as his hair. And when the fuck did heavy, groomed beards and neck tattoos of sparrows being impaled by broken Gibson guitar strings become so fucking gorgeous?

He brushes droplets of champagne from his tuxedo jacket, wipes his hand on his pants, and extends it to me; even his hand is covered in ink.

"That must've really fucking hurt," I blurt out. Filter: gone with the wind.

His eyes are puzzled until they drop to our grasped hands, then become alight with humor. "Not much more than those pearls swatting my face," he says.

As if he isn't hot enough already, his voice, lit with a trace of an Irish accent, drains the blood from all arteries and veins in me and sends it straight to my cheeks. The raging fire is rising in my face and between my legs. RJ never made me feel this way, but I was young. Emmett was all love to me; not the lusty kind, but the sweet, innocent romance kind. What I'm feeling right now is anything but sweet and innocent.

It's vicious.

I'll probably go to hell for these thoughts alone. Me. Him. A bathroom or bar table or car. Him in me. Yes.

I feel myself nodding to his request to dance without registering that I'll have to move my feet and body with synchronization - a talent I'm completely lacking. But he's offering his inked hand and transferring my empty champagne glass from my fingers into Esme's - I forgot she was there, my bad - and pulling me toward the floor.

"I don't know how I feel about this song," he tells me. Crazy in Love from the Gatsby soundtrack is on.

"Really?" I ask. "I love this song. I love jazz."

"Do ya now?"

Fuck. Yes, I fucking do.

And I love the way he moves my body. How is he doing this?

And later, when he moves inside my body with the same mastery and skill, I come apart like a thousand crystals of a shattering chandelier.

But I'll get to that in a bit.


	5. Chapter Four: We're on Fire

A/N: **waves** Well hello, hello. Thank you all for taking time to read my twisted thoughts and words. I've missed you all. Something happens when you become an official author - published and shit - that kills brain cells. I've missed the fun that exists in creative writing that flows through your brain and out your fingertips. So here I am, offering a piece of myself up to you.

Please enjoy.

Chapter Four: We're on Fire

I wake up in my room where the walls are brick and there's lots of windows in desperate need of a good washing - I'll add that to my to-do list. My mascara is smudged and smeared under my eyes; evidence of a night filled with ... perspiring inspiration and bliss. Something about Edward has bred both a hunger and need for the physical heights he takes me to, and a newfound appreciation of Los Angeles - even for my apartment.

I told him not to fall in love with me. I was drunk as a skunk when I said it - so was he - and we laughed and fell into a mass of tangled limbs and Egyptian cotton sheets on his bed. He either doesn't remember, or tacks it up to the mimosas we'd been drinking at brunch that morning last week, but I wasn't kidding. The three weeks we've been fucking has been great, but I only want the fucking. I don't want the love part. I've been burned by love.

All I want from Edward is his wonderful mouth and hands and body. The morning-after brunch each time is just a nice bonus. He has a thing for breakfast foods, and I have a thing for fucking him afterward when the orange juice and marmalade are fresh on his tongue.

And, fuck. He can afford to take me to brunch. For god's sake, he's some bigwig at Polymanic Features, a film company which made some indie movie last year and swept the Oscars. I don't know. That's Esme's department, not mine.

I don't care what he does or who he is. He fucks me brilliantly, and that's fine by me.

The night of the costume gala, we danced until my feet went numb and I was desperate for a smoke.

"Here," he offered, extending a pack my way. I glanced up at the crown molding and golden drapes, and brushed his hand away.

"This is LA," I reminded. "No smoking inside."

"Let's go outside then," he countered - challenged.

"No smoking outside in LA, either."

"Only if they catch you," he smirked.

That cigarette is the best one I've ever had. I felt it cling to my lungs in a way doctors flip their shit about. But what really made it great was the way Edward's emerald Irish eyes focused on my lips with every inhale and the way he licked his own with each of my exhales. I seduced him with a cigarette, and he owned me with one just the same.

When we got the hell out of there, he fucked me six ways to Sunday and made me come even more. He was rough in all the right places and at all the right times, and dragged and rolled me around the bed and living room rug until my insides burned with the fire he started.

But something is different today. We leave my apartment after showering together - abnormal in itself - and he invites me to ride in his Porsche. We never ride together. It's too enclosed for the heat we bring; way too intimate. And today's brunch is so much more than just him and me and pancakes and bloody Mary's and mimosas. It's ... conversing and laughter and touches and smiles.

Yeah, he definitely didn't take me seriously. Tattoo boys aren't supposed to get attached. They're bad and delicious and everything tough, but not Edward. He's getting way too close.

And I'm panicking.


	6. Chapter Five: The In-between

Chapter Five: The In-between

The time from that brunch to now has been strange. I try to not take all of his calls, and force my responses to his texts to be short and void of emotion. It's painful because a part of me does have an emotional connection to him. This space and time in-between — this void — is meant to remedy his growing need for me and severe the connection.

No, he hasn't admitted its existence, but I see it just the same. He doesn't know me well enough to need me, and I don't want it to get to that point. I try to stay away from him, and cut our meetings down to once or twice a week. I try to lie to myself and say that the space isn't making me want him just a bit more.

"Bella," Esme says, snapping her manicured nails in front of my eyes and pushing the new edits toward me. Rosalie sits beside her, swirling the impaled olives in her dirty martini. "You've been writing."

I blink up to her eyes. Writing? Who's been writing? Not me. I'm a wordless blob. All I've done is remove some of the excessive commas and fix shit like I'm ordered to.

"I can't write. It faded out like a tiger-striped sunset. I don't have it in me anymore."

"She even speaks like she writes," Rosalie tells Esme with a snort. "Maybe it's the screwing that did it."

Esme smiles, knowing — conniving. "How is Edward Masen?"

I roll my eyes and finish my espresso as if it were a shot of tequila. "I wouldn't know," I say. "We don't waste our time talking."

This shocks her. "What! Why? You two are having a great time together."

"That's part of the problem," I tell her; Rosalie is along for a ride on the gossip train. "He's fire and I'm ice. The heat was fun, but it's a bit too intense."

"But—"

"If he would just let me fuck him, it'd be perfect. And that's how it was the last month. We didn't talk about our lives or unnecessary bullshit. We just fucked and came and rolled out of bed and moved on."

"How strange," Rosalie pipes up. "That doesn't sound like Edward at all."

Now I'm confused. "You know him?"

"He took Alice Cunningham's—" the last truly great American novelist I've heard of "—final novel and made an Oscar-winning movie out of it before she passed away. Everyone in the business knows him. I thought that's how you two met? After I sent him those first chapters you gave me, he wanted to meet you to discuss optioning the film rights."

"Wait!" I blurt. "What?" My eyes swing to Esme's, demanding. "Did you know about this?"

She shrugs — shrugs! — and sips her tea. "He invited us to that party to meet you. It just worked itself out."

"He never once mentioned the manuscript, and I never gave you the right to send it to a film producer in the first fucking place," I seethe. "I don't want myself out there and exposed like this." I feel vulnerable and frustrated and pissed-the-fuck-off.

"Bella," Rosalie says calmly, pretending I'm not ready to break her fucking face. "This is Los Angeles. This is what people do. You want to get famous, otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"That's not true at all!" I am really, really fucking mad now. These two don't realize the tigress they're poking is a rabid beast. "I'm here because I was forced to be."

"What does that mean?" Esme asks. I've never told me my story; I shouldn't have to. It's no one's fucking business but my own.

So when I open my mouth to tell her where to stick her questions, the admission that spills out instead is shocking to even myself.

"My mom left when I was ten. Dad raised me to take care of myself, and then he went and got himself shot in the head by a motherfucking rich kid he pulled over for speeding. I was seventeen when I wrote that book and signed with Simpson & Token, and moved to New York City for the thrill. RJ Token is a goddamn pimp who used me and my words to make money, and left me on the floor like used underwear.

"Denver happened to be a stop for the Greyhound I left NYC on, where a cute boy asked me out, and I ended up staying. Emmett loved me and I loved him. Why? Because he was simple and kind. He didn't care about making me write — he just wanted me to have his babies and cook him dinner and go snowboarding with him. He had to go and get killed in the stupid fucking war, and his brother — my boss — had to send me out here because I was probably a constant reminder that his kid brother was never coming home.

"I never get to just be myself. No, I always have to be something for someone, and now look where we are. I don't want to feel like my words are being used, and I don't want to be famous. I knew this was all a huge-ass mistake."

They both stare at me — at the tears, unshed, in my brown eyes — but say nothing. I refuse to cry, and force my desert heart to vaporize the salty drops.

I push back from the table, throw down a twenty, and walk away.

The sun is setting, casting long shadows on Vine. I just want to go home, pack a bag, and head to the bus station, but a "two-for-one" deal at a pub I'm rushing by catches my eye, and I'm waylaid. I'll thing better with liquor in my veins.

Or not.

Getaways and sleep don't happen, because a bartender with massive biceps and ruddy skin fucks me hard and deep all night. I'll find out his name when the sun returns.


	7. Chapter Six: The Part About Whiskey

Chapter Six: The Part about Whiskey

"Jacob," he tells me the next day. It was one in the afternoon before I opened my eyes, and now I'm nursing a hangover from hell with some kind of disgusting concoction Bartender Boy — Jacob — put together from the contents of my fridge.

"Jake?" I ask if I can call him something less complicated. Adding that extra syllable to his name is too much work right now. "Bella." I'm incapable of forcing my mouth to speak more than one word at a time.

He's leaning against my kitchen island, smirking at me. "You're not a big fan of whiskey, are you?" He's referring to all the Jack and Coke he put in front of me last night.

I shake my head, but the movement is painful, and press my palms to my temples, wishing to crush my skull to relieve the pressure.

"I'm going to take off, if that's okay," he says, already jabbing his leather jacket and heading toward the door. I don't bother glancing up or bidding him a farewell, and simply brush my fingers toward the door in dismissal. He's been excused. And I'm a raging bitch. If he agrees with my self-depreciating thoughts, he doesn't say anything.

"I put my number in your phone," he tells me as he opens the door. "Call me if you want to do this again."

When he's gone, I go back to bed but can't sleep. My brain hurts, and refuses to shut the fuck up. Yesterday, I was ready to get on a bus and get the hell out of this town; now that I've had some whiskey and a night of good ol' normal fucking — feelingless fucking — I'm reassessing the situation. It's not the worst thing to be forced to write, is it?

After a lukewarm shower — thanks to the building's one goddamn old boiler — I jot down a to-do list: clean the windows, find a roommate and new apartment, buy a pair of boots, quit my job, write the fuck out of my manuscript, eat dinner.

I stick the list to the fridge with an "I Love NYC" magnet, and my fingers are dialing Garrett McCarty's number without second thought. He answers on the fourth ring, definitely surprised I called. Typically, my assignments are communicated by email, and returned as such.

"Bella," he answers. "How are you, kiddo?"

_Kiddo_. Well, that solidifies my resolve.

"I'm quitting."

There's a silence so long I'm not sure he's still on the line. I pull the phone away from my ear to check the connection. Nope. He's still there.

"Bella, what's going on? What are you talking about?" He's as confused as I am. But I don't back down.

"I'm an author, you know?" I ask. It's rhetorical. Of course he knows. "I need some time to write. If I don't focus only on that, I'll never do it."

"Why don't you just take leave for a couple of months?" he counters.

Sighing, it's hard to admit this aloud. "You've been great to me. Emmett would be so proud of you, Gar." I hate hearing his breaking gasp. "I'll be okay."

"We're always here, Bella. Don't forget."

That's part of the problem, but I don't tell him. "Thanks. I won't forget."

Our call ends, and something is lifted off my chest. It's the weight of being what Emmett wanted me to be, what the McCarty's saw.

It's so small — maybe even insignificant — but it's one more thing to mark off the list in the evolution of me.

My phone buzzes from its spot beside my typewriter, where I'm doing some slow and laborious rewriting of _Loose Leaves_. I answer without looking at the screen, and almost drop it when I hear Edward's thick bass voice and Irish-lit.

"Bella, hello," he says. I hear the surprise in his voice that I answered his call. "How are ya today?"

"I'm fine. Just writing." And freaking out that you're calling, I want to add.

"Writing! Excellent. Writing is good." His words are alive, and I can see his smile in my mind. He has such a beautiful smile. Fuck.

"Yeah, it's going pretty well right now." My words feel like fillers in a void; not meaningful, but something to just keep the conversation from completely drowning.

"I tried calling a few times this week," he says. " And last." There's a question in there somewhere.

I light a cigarette and inhale deeply, allowing time to flip the fuck out and contemplate the appropriate response. I take the safe route. "I've holed myself up in this place the past four days, writing from dawn to midnight. It's been a while." I don't mention Bartender-Jake, though he stopped by this morning for a spiked coffee and quick round of sex — with a little, pink six-speed vibrator he bought me from a sex shop in Hollywood; it makes me come in six different colors. Yeah, I don't mention that stuff, and I don't have to. It's not his business … I think.

Edward's laugh is startling and refreshing, breaking through my overthinking. "I know the place you're in. I get that way on projects I'm excited about. When did you last eat?"

"Uh…" I can't remember. I think I may have had a banana around seven this morning before Jake stopped by. Maybe.

"I figured. In that case, I'll stop by Jerry's and grab some split pea soup. See you in an hour."

The line disconnects with a trilogy of beeps, and I'm left wondering what the fuck just happened. Several moments pass before I realize this means he's actually coming here — uninvited, though it doesn't seem like he gives a shit — and I'm a mess.

I scramble to the shower, lathering everything up at once, and even brush my teeth under the spray. No time to lose. When the conditioner is rinse from my hair, I jump out and run for clothes. I lift the sweats I was wearing earlier to my nose and quickly throw them toward the hamper — they smell like ass, like the one I was sitting on all day while I was writing.

When his knuckles rap on my door, exactly an hour from the time he called, I'm all lipgloss and mascara and cutoffs, like I've been writing all day looking like this. Yeah right. His smirk tells me he knows better, but he's graceful and says nothing about it.

Hours later, twilight finds us sipping glasses of wine and his hand on my knee as we sit legs up on the sofa, facing each other. He's telling me about growing up in Ireland and then Chicago, and the sister he just helped move to Los Angeles. Meave, his sister, has a little boy, Liam, named for his uncle.

"It's so cute when he wants something," Edward says with a fondness in his eyes and smile. He's a proud uncle. "He says 'I love you, Uncle.' in the sweetest Irish. 'Tá grá agam ort.'"

"What was that?" I laugh.

"That's the Irish. It's how he says it to me. 'I love you.' It's different for different meanings."

"How so?" I'm asking before I know it.

His eyes move from his glass to the curtains behind us, and finally land on my face. "If I said it to you, I'd say, 'Is tú mo shearc.'" My eyes flashed to his, catching them and all the things unsaid behind them. "If you said it to me, you'd say, 'is tú mo shearc rún.'"

"What's the difference?" I ask, though I'm not sure I want to know.

"They just mean different things," he says quietly, and moves on quickly. "Tell me about this writing spree you've been on."

I blink away from his gaze, and glance at my typewriter. I'm vulnerable again — something I hate to be. But this — breaking free — is on my evolutionary list, so I speak.

"I didn't write for a long time. A really long time."

"Why?" he interrupts.

Shrugging, I tell the truth. "I couldn't. I was too busy trying to be too many things to too many people."

"This is LA," he says, leaning toward me. A hair's breadth away. "You can be whoever and whatever you wish."

"You've got it all figured out, haven't you? What if I just want to be me?" I question, musing the possibility of a twenty-seven-year-old's self-reinvention.

His hands grasp both sides of my face, steadying me with fierce green eyes as he draws my mouth toward his. "You be yourself. Perfectly and completely." His lips own mine in that moment and a million more that night.

And I'm a mess, kissing Edward with the taste of Jake still in my mouth. Where have I gone?


	8. Chapter Seven: Both Ends of the Candle

Chapter Seven: Both Ends of the Candle

They each have an assigned ringtone for texts and calls, and as _Anaconda_ blares to life, my eyes fly open in the dark of my room. Sleepy and fumbling, I manage to silence the noise, but the damage has been done and Edward's arm tighten around me.

"Nicki Minaj, Bella?" he mumbles with a sleepy laugh. "I took you as more of a Fleetwood Mac girl." He's right, of course, because he knows me well, and his lips on my shoulder electrify that fact to the forefront of my mind. But it doesn't stop my desire to reach out and see what Jake felt the need to tell me in the wee hours of the pre-dawn morning. "You're a hot commodity," he jokes, but has no idea. "Do you need to get that?"

I push up on my elbows and turn to see his sleep-rumpled hair and heavy-lidded eyes trying to stay open. "Go back to sleep. I'll just be a minute." We didn't have sex last night — nor any night in the two weeks since he showed up at my house with soup — due more to the battle waging in my mind than the throbbing between my legs where Jake had been last.

Edward rolls out of bed, and heads toward the restroom, and I check Jake's text. He wants to know if I'm awake; if he can come over for a night cap. And for the first time, I feel completely sickened with it all.

Jake uses my body the way I wanted to use Edward's. Wanted? Want? No, I can't think about that now. I silence my phone and put it back on the nightstand.

"Bella?" Edward calls from the bathroom.

"Hm?" I murmur.

He doesn't answer, and several minutes pass before I see him in the doorway. His body is silhouetted by the bathroom light, and I squint to see him better. Something is wrong. I can tell by his stance.

"What is it?" I ask. My stomach flutters nervously.

"I threw away a tissue and noticed … uh … a condom in the trashcan," he tells me. There's pain in his voice, and I'm steel myself for a fight. "Have you … I mean, I know it's not my business — we aren't together … but, have you been … Are you seeing someone else?"

"No!" I blurt, suddenly wishing I could take everything back. "I mean, yes, I've seen someone a few times."

His fists clench at his sides. "Is it serious?"

"We aren't dating, if that's what—"

"Just sleeping with him," he cuts me off.

I'm not feeling bad now, just really pissed off. "Yeah, I've slept with him a few times," I say, not backing down.

Edward stalks to me, and when he's close enough, leaning down over me, I see the anger flashing in his eyes. "I don't want to share."

Definitely pissed off. "Share? Share what?" I react with rage — insulted by the claim of ownership. "I'm not yours. I'm not his."

"Bella, don't start this—"

"No!" I shout. "_You_ don't start this. Get out. Get the fuck out of my house. If you ever pull your head out of your ass, I may still be here. Maybe not. Don't bother me until then."

When he leaves, minutes later, I throw myself back into bed with raging frustration. Another text rings through the night. Jake, again.

_Are you awake and ready to fuck?_ he asks.

My reply should send the point home. _Fuck yourself._

Goddammit.


	9. Chapter Eight: When the Stars Aligned

Disclaimer: please recall the fictitious nature of fiction.

Chapter Eight: When the Stars Aligned

"Bella!" Esme's voice is loud and pulls me from the computer screen before me.

I've moved up in the world - computer and all that jazz. In the past six months, I've joined a gym, gave up my American Spirit smokes, cut down on the French-press, and have added a glass of Merlot to my nightly routine. I stopped talking to Jake - actually within days of the stupid fucking blowup at my house, and changed my number to a California one - something permanent and real. I put down roots. Roots in concrete.

Why?

Because something ridiculously bizarre happened in the first days of my evolution.

One: my book was picked up by a publishing company with a history of successful authors and major contracts.

Two: In the process of extracting myself from my dependence on the McCartys, I realized my twenty-seven-year-old self had never really grown up. I hit a wall around the time I hit RJ's window with that vase, and ten years later, I found myself stuck in the mindset that the world was mine alone and my actions effected only me.

Three: Men are no more toys for me than I am for them. I know I hurt Edward, and I probably even hurt Jake - though I never got close enough to find out. Sex is rapturous, but my evolutionary list includes a promise to not partake again until I am either in love or falling hard. If I ever get that far again...or for the first time, because who knows if I ever truly loved before?

Four: -

"Bella!" Esme's excitement is loud and breaks through the soundproof walls in my mind. "I wanted to tell you tonight at dinner, but I can't contain myself." She and Carlisle are my steady Thursday night date. They probably feel bad that I haven't been dating or clubbing or whatever people think you're supposed to do in LA; they don't know I'm monking-out by choice because I'm a total fuck up. See? Self-depreciation in action. And I don't even say fuck as much as I used to.

"What's going on?" I take my Skull Candy headphones off and pause the Bach cello piece which had me in the zone.

Esme plops on my puffy, faux leather futon, as if the weight of her excitement is too heavy to carry another moment. Her eyes are twinkling in that mischievous way she has when something stupidly awesome is coming to fruition. "The publisher called twenty minutes ago." The final draft is due next week, printing scheduled three weeks later, and the release will be accompanied by a west coast book tour with a couple other authors. "An LA-based film company wants to option rights to your novel."

My eyebrows rise and scrunch together in a way Rosalie warns me will cause wrinkles so terrible even Botox won't be able to correct them. That's not currently on my list of things to care about.

"What do you mean?" I ask, bewildered and doubtful. "It's not even out yet."

"Well, someone got ahold of something from somewhere and the stars are aligning. Bella, this is the magic of LA. Aren't you excited?"

Excited? Not in so many words. Apprehensive, maybe. "There's a lot of me in that book, Esme. I don't know if I want to go as far as to have it looked at by a production company. That's really asking a lot."

"You've agreed to put it in print, so is the leap much further from paper to screen?"

She's right. Maybe the chasm isn't as wide as my mind wants me to believe, but that doesn't mean I'm ready to open my chest and take out my beating heart for just anyone with twelve bucks and a bucket of greasy popcorn.

"Look," she says, seeing the panic in my eyes, "don't make any decisions tonight or this week. Let's talk it over, have some wine, sleep on it, and reassess later on."

Reassess. Reassessing my life's choices has been on the to-do list for a while. It's hard to attack that one because it includes really delving in to some seriously fucked up shit: why did my mother abandon me; why do I let myself be used and use in return?

Head-case in action right here, folks. But maybe now is as good a time as ever to begin.


	10. Chapter Nine: Breathe Deep, Don't Choke

A/N: For those of us classy-as-fuck women with our middle fingers in the air.

Chapter Nine: Breathe Deep, Don't Choke

"You know those moments when your head is telling you to do something really stupid and your heart is telling you to wait? They tell me it's supposed to be the opposite; your heart is the leap-without-looking organ, and your brain the think-of-the-consequences one. This has never been the case for me. My heart is usually telling my brain to wake up and smell the fucking coffee, because my head is stuck in a limbo of idiocy while my chest is left to do the thinking. Unfortunately, hearts don't transmit the neurons necessary to tell your body what to do, so, alas, I remain in the head-case limbo as stated above. At least we can all assume I passed biology class … or whichever class one learns about brain function in humans.

"I can easily tell you the things my heart knows are good and true, like the way he kissed me the first time or that last time before I sent him away, and the way my body misses him though I didn't even know his middle name. I can also tell you the bad parts, like the stupidity inside me and the way I cave under pressure.

"I've always been three parts rebel for every one part sensible. Kind of like a cake. A really fucking unbalanced, flat … well, flat-chested, off-flavored cake. My only saving grace is this. And now you're all here with me in my head — the idiot part, mind you — hearing my thoughts.

"Are you scared yet?"

The crowd at the little Seattle coffee/book shop erupts into applause as I finish reading the excerpt of _Loose Leaves_. Apparently, people really dig a washed-up writer with poor decision-making skills. Further, someone in Hollywoodland digs _this_ washed-up writer enough to engage in talks of turning my autobiographical memoirish-thing into a film. Fucking crazies.

A decade ago, _Loose Leaves_ wasn't meant to be a personal tale; it was supposed to be about some faceless creature of habit, bearing only infinitesimal resemblance to myself. Not so much anymore. It took on a life of it's own when Rosalie began the editing and Esme the peddling; so much so that I turned into something I never expected in a million years: a confessional.

The sinner has come to church, at last, and it's majestic as fuck.

I sign several dozen copies of the hardback, an array of markers at my disposal. I don't use my pen name any longer, this was on the checklist, and instead sign "Isabella Swan" proud and bold. Why? Because if anyone doesn't like what I'm confessing — the fuck ups, the hook ups, the messy parts — they can go fuck themselves. Maybe their stupid guilty consciences should take a walk into this confessional, too.

Weight: lifted.

Later, as Rosalie, Esme, and I indulge in lobster and fresh-caught fish at a Pike Place restaurant, the topic of discussion turns from favorite Jane Austen one-liners (that's a thing right? It should be if it's not, because the woman was a sassy, fucking hoot) to the crazy person(s) in LAlaland ready to take my book to the silver-screen. This topic switch only happens because I stepped to the ladies room for a moment. Lesson learned.

"He married her, loved her hard, and stuck by her side until leukemia took her two years ago."

The tail end of Rosalie's remark piques the interest of the soap-opera part of my sick fascinations. I bite. "This sounds like a great literary fiction in the making," I say with a laugh. "Who's my protagonist?"

Esme's eyes dart to mine in a scared way, and she swallows her Chardonnay nervously. She'd be fucking awful at poker, and I remind myself to either never play or to definitely play her … you know, depending on if I need the cash.

Rosalie isn't one for games, but she likes the drama just the same — it's the editor in her. "Well, Edward Masen, of course," she states plainly, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and I'm simply that obtuse. Maybe I am that obtuse. "Remember Alice Cunningham?"

I find myself nodding though the smile has dropped from my face and my insides have gone numb. Alice Cunningham was the last great American novelist; I even noted her influence in my writing throughout _Loose Leaves_. I know I mentioned her before. I remember crying the day word of her death reached my phone in Colorado via a Facebook message from Emmett, and that was only two months before he was killed. God, what a horrid fucking year that turned out to be.

And she was Edward's wife? _Wife_. Like, as in "for better or worse!"

I must say these thoughts aloud, because Rosalie is answering them, and I know she's not a mindreader because she would've shot me dead for some of the things I've thought toward her for the edits she's returned to me.

"He's the producer who turned her last novel into a film." I vaguely remember this being mentioned in past conversations. I nod like a bobble-head doll again. "And they were in love. It was so romantic. Of course, they were a quiet couple, not ones for the Hollywood spotlight, but everyone close to them could see it. He took her death pretty hard, even though she was sick when he married her."

Three things register to me simultaneously. One: I'm a fucking asshole. Two: Edward has a thing for really fucked-up writers. And three: He's behind this film-rights shit because of his dead wife.

I want to both beat him to a pulp and apologize profusely. Which will come first, I haven't decided.


	11. Chp Ten: Golightly, Moonriver, Golightly

For Kimberly, Gina, and Meg.

Chapter Ten: Golightly, Moon River, Golightly

The ten months since I've seen the beauty of Edward has done little to lessen the picture of him in my mind: handsome on those stairs, sweaty above me in ecstasy, sleepy and heavy-lidded as I rode him like a cowgirl at the National Western Stockshow.

And now I'm going to see him again - in seventeen-and-a-half minutes if he's punctual with dismissing the meeting currently occupying his office. Edward is anything if not punctual, and I'm beginning to reevaluate the wisdom of seeing him here - his territory, no neutral ground upon which to hash out serious details (why did we get off on the wrong foot? why does he want to produce my book? why he has an obsession with fucked up women authors?).

His assistant watches me stonily from his spot at the front desk. I hope he doesn't have a clue who the fuck I am. That wish proves I'm fully aware of my past stupidity - thank you, thank you very much.

Luckily, I made this appointment under a false name. I didn't want him to see me coming, just incase the "beat him to a pulp" option was still on the table. I'm sneaky like that.

When he enters the lobby, escorting a group of elderly, balding men toward the door, my breath catches. Goddamn, he's a sight for sore eyes. A dress-shirt with rolled up sleeves, a brown vest, tan slacks, and gorgeous caramel-colored shoes - certainly made of Italian leather; his beard is still thick and full and ginger, and his forearms bear even more tattoos than the day we parted.

And he's stopping before me. Transfixed.

His eyes give away confusion and mix of emotions at my sudden reappearance in his life ... and at his office no less. "Bella," he says; my name rolls from from his tongue almost reverently - an honor I don't deserve. "This is unexpected." He fiddles with his phone, pulling up the day's schedule surely, and lifts his eyes back to mine with a crooked smile. "Holly Golightly, I presume?" he asks, biting back a laugh as he refers to the pseudonym I used when scheduling the appointment.

I shrug, trying desperately not to smile. I'm not ready to smile at him yet. Soon, maybe - we'll see - but not yet. "Breakfast at Tiffany's is a favorite of mine," I begin, waiting - wondering - if he'll catch the significance. He does. Of course he does. He's a film producer. There's no way he doesn't appreciate the classics or how that specific film might relate to a broken soul such as mine. "I have a special place in my head for self-destructive, poor decision-making heroines. Self-discovery, relating, and all that jazz."

And just like that, my confessional is no longer a sacred place for only priest and sinner; Edward has been welcome to partake in my penance. This is my Hail Mary, and I hope he'll see the effort for what it is.

"Now that you mention it," he says, smirking, and a flicker of hope tickles my stomach. "I recall a moment where you called out in your sleep, "'Cat! Cat!' Hmm ... It's all falling into place now."

I blush ninety-nine luftballons worth of red; I can't believe he said that aloud ... in his office ... in front of Stone-Face-Assistant-boy. There are many words to be aired and this is not the place for them.

"Can we speak in your office?" I ask, desperate to get away from the eyes and ears of gossiping office folk, hanging about like gnomes in a garden.

He blinks, his goofy grin giving way to a tightened jaw and thin-lipped nod. "This way."

I follow him down a colorful hallway, filled with posters of Hollywood's most epic films, and nearly stumble to a halt before Audrey Hepburn's black-draped silhouette, sunglass covered eyes, and fancy-cigarette holding fingers. A chill runs up my spine like a dozen little mice feet because this? ... This is a sign. It can't not be a sign. Can it?

"Bella," Edward calls back from further down the hallway. I don't want to look away from the poster - it's giving me a weird feeling of courage the more I stare - but his voice is equally luring. So I salute Ms. Hepburn with a wink and head his way.

His office is masculine and modern, but I'd expect no less. And on his desk is my book, and a photo of Alice Cummingham with him on a beach. She didn't have hair whenever the picture was taken, and looks frail and thin as the chemotherapy surely had begun to take away whatever life the cancer hadn't already laid claim to.

Edward sees where my eyes are focusing, and leans against the front of the desk, effectively blocking my view - protecting. I lost the right to see into his life because I preferred to be blind back then.

"So," he starts, "what can I help you with?"

A million words rush to my tongue: wicked, spiteful, remorseful ... But, when I open my mouth this comes out instead, "Have dinner with me?"


	12. Chapter Eleven: The Aforementioned Loves

A/N: Thanks for reading! xoxo Quinn aka Madi Merek

Chapter Eleven: The Aforementioned Loves

A significant piece of everyone's past, inferring the mature age of their being, is spent in fantastical romance or dreams of said affections. While I cannot in good conscience say I've been waylaid in life by such trivial emotion since my first experience with RJ — not even Emmett held my heart, not fully and truly, for we were only a fine match of interests and physical connection. But now, as I listen to Edward speak with such passion and admiration of his dead wife, I can't help but feel a gnawing inside for the love he's lost.

The bottle of Cabernet at our table, sitting half empty — the pessimist in me of sure of it's volume — is lightening the blood flowing through my veins and and quickening my heart rate as the emerald-eyed man tells his tale of love and sorrow. My stomach aches, and my heart screams from inside the cavity of my chest that I should've known these things before I ransacked his fragile world.

Before I allowed him inside my body, should I not first have allowed him inside my head; my heart? I cannot justify my behavior, and I tell him this when the conversation switches from the long-lost beauty who was Alice Cunningham to the man _I_ once planned to marry.

"Emmett, he was … something else," I tell Edward, who looks at me with great interest as pieces of me come spilling through my lips. Yes, he's read my book; he's been inside my head, but there's something much different, perhaps more telling, to hear the confession of a woman who hurt you. "Emmett was the first guy who paid me any attention when I got to Colorado. I took a job as a waitress in a country bar. We had to wear little cut-off shorts and white tank-tops, even in the below zero temperatures." I shiver at the memory of those chilly days, suddenly quite thankful for the Los Angeles sunset dipping beyond us. "He was in the bar one night for a friend's bachelor party, and one of their games was to get a photo grabbing a random girl's tit or ass. I guess I was the lucky girl the table wanted to pick on."

Edward frowns at this, and I know what he's thinking because I'm thinking it, too, all these years later — trashy as fuck.

"Anyway," I continue, "I almost cock-punched the big mountain of a man when he started to reach for me, but I swatted his hand away instead. He didn't like that very much, and almost got into it with me right there at the table. His friends — who were all just as drunk as he was — apologized for his behavior and dragged him out."

"I'm confused," his cute Irish voice pulls me from the thought. "How the bloody hell did you end up with him then?"

"He came back a few days later, said he was sorry for the way he acted, and showed me the picture — the one he wanted to take with me — of him and some girl on the 16th Street Mall." Edward scoffs, and I want to join, but there's more to tell. "I blew him off for the another few months. One day he showed up, wearing a U.S. Army shirt and a carrying a bouquet of red, white, and blue carnations." When I hear Edward's snort of annoyance, I know it's because he'd never give a lady carnations. Good thing I'm no lady.

"Anyway, he'd gone all gung-ho patriot and planned to enlist, and wanted to take me out to apologize for his behavior from months earlier. I don't remember what made me say yes that time and none of the others, but I did, and we went from zero to a million in a handful of days."

"Sounds like a pattern," Edward supplies, referring to the way our own sexual relationship sped before slamming into a wall. I kind of want to punch him for this, even though he's right. I keep the napkin twisted in my fist to avoid this.

"Yeah, well, I'll talk to my shrink about it sometime," I retort. "A long story of ranches, truck beds, and horse manure short, he asked me to marry him days before he left for camp. He said he wanted to know that he'd have a pretty girl to come home to — someone to give him handsome sons, and cook him pancakes every morning. I fell in love with him—" though I'm currently second-guessing that idea after hearing from Edward what love truly sounds and feels and tastes like "—so I said yes. His brother, Garrett, had hired me on as a writer early on in our relationship so I'd be okay while Em was gone. We were going to get married when he returned from basic, but it didn't work out that way. Months later he was in Iraq … And then he was … he died over there."

Pity and understanding and something I can't put a name to shadows Edward's face. We sit in a strangely comfortable silence for several moments before the waiter returns to our table to pour the remnants of the wine into our glasses.

Edward lifts his into the air. "May the aforementioned loves never be forgotten, and may our lives be all the better for their sake."

I toast to this, but I really want to cry.


	13. Chapter Twelve: Where Sparrows Fall

Chapter Twelve: Where Sparrows Fall

"You know what?" I say. Edward tilts his head towards me in a way that tells me he's listening intently, as he always does, but continues to sip his coffee on my comfy futon. "I'm so bloody tired -" I've taken to using some of his phrases and wordage because we spend so much damn time together "- of being demonized for my feelings." This piques his interest and he raises an eyebrow and places his drink on the table.

"How so, Bells?"

"Well, don't I have the right to be independent and confident of myself without people - men - acting like I'm a bossy bitch? I don't suspect you're ever told you're an attention seeker or a skank or a bad person because of your own self-assured lifestyle?"

This is meant as a rhetorical question, but he answers anyway. "No, never. I told you before, you keep on being exactly who you are. Everyone else can bugger off."

And this is proof of what we've become. Friends. We spend a lot (read: all) of our time together, but there's nothing sexual happening between us. It's refreshing. I've never been friends with a man; never had a man in my life who didn't expect that I blow him after a nice dinner - or brunch - out. We've become easy, happy friends. Friends who talk and have movie nights, and there's no discrimination between his Century City penthouse and my new (so old it doesn't have a dishwasher) little Hollywood loft. We take turns making dinner, and live in a comfortable camaraderie.

We're good as friends. There's no expectation, and we're able to find common ground. He's teaching me what it means to be an adult in all senses, and make smart financial decisions; what it means to live in Hollywood and what to expect as my writing becomes a screenplay and film. He likes my opinions and gives me a lot of creative control in the decision-making process. He assures me I'm not a wordless blob. I appreciate this.

I teach him ... something? He sure does curse a lot more now than when I first met him. We don't talk about what happened last year; not Jake, not the sex, not the deep connection we had, because it doesn't matter now. What we have here, this warm, perfect friendship is all I need. I think.

Of course, he's handsome as hell, and I'll never deny the pull he has on me, like a lasso around my soul, but it's grown and deepened from lusty headiness to a true need of a confidant. He tells me he feels the same.

"What've you got there?" he asks, suddenly leaning over my shoulder and studying the cream pages of the leather bound journal he bought me a few weeks ago when he took a quick trip to Canada to scout filming locations. I'd missed him painfully while he was away. When he returned, Edward presented me with the journal, telling me to write a bestseller on those pages.

I lean over and tuck the journal against my chest, hiding it from his view. "_Where Sparrows Fall_, and absolutely _no_ peeking, Edward Masen!" I demand. "You're liable to turn it into a movie before I even write the fucking thing." His fingers jab and tickle against my ribcage and his teeth and lips nip against my neck and shoulder, trying to get the journal from my grasp. "Stop! Stop!" I scream in hysterical laughter. He knows how ticklish I am.

What feels like twenty minutes — but is likely twenty seconds — later, he falls back against my desk, out of breath from laughing with such gusto; as am I. After I wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes, and look at him … he's all I can see. Edward's eyes are bright with humor, and his face filled with joy. The room gets blurry — maybe it's the tears — and my gaze zeros on a face I've come to adore and this wonderful, wonderful man.

"What?" he wonders, laughs, still panting for a full breath. "Has my face turned green?"

I shake my head, not entirely sure what to say. "You just … You seem happy."

His lips still smile and hold the joy of the moment, but something changes. Edward's emerald eyes don't sober or lose their spark. No, there's something more intense, deeper, in them now and he says, "I am happy, Bells. Happier than ever."

I try to blink the moment away; it doesn't fade.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Steampunk

A/N: Thanks for your patience and the *beautiful* reviews. My heart is filled with joy. Please enjoy.

Chapter 13: Steampunk

"I am a tumbleweed, blowing in the wind and at the mercy of currents of change. I've no fingers to dig into the dirt and grasp for shelter; I continue rolling through the desert, lost and forlorn, until I find myself caught up by a lone and wild rose bush. Where it came from I'll never know, but its presence has made all the difference."

I've been chewing on my thumb, and it's numb from the pressure of my teeth by the time Edward finishes reading the small selection of _Where Sparrows Fall_ that I've surrendered to him. It sounds so beautiful coming from his lips, as though they were made to read my words — I compose, he recites. He's that wild rose bush; I want to tell him this, but I can't find the words. Instead, I write them. Edward reads my heart poured out in ink upon paper he gifted me, and I try to gift him back a token of my appreciation for his presence in my life.

He is the dawn and I am midnight. Everything I knew before him was sorrowful and mundane, and now he's brought a steady peace to my life; something I can always be certain of, like the rising of the sun. He tells me I've brought _animation_ to his. This is a good thing, he assures me.

My now three years in Los Angeles have been a whirlwind and I their tumbleweed, and Edward's presence — as friend and confidant — two years of vines and roses, holding me safe against that wind.

_Loose Leaves_ is now a complete, beautiful indie film, and premiered at the Toronto International Film Festival in September, creating Oscar buzz for the directing (which Edward did himself) and for the lead actress. Jenner Chastis played a wonderful headcase writer on the brink of self-destruction. And I've only been forced to endure a handful of events and interviews. Lucky me.

The Oscars are only a week away, and Edward has insisted I accompany him. My hesitancy was thrown out the window when he reminded me there's a stylist coming to his home with a shit-ton of dresses for me to choose from, and they're also going to do my hair and makeup for the show. Now I'm fucking pumped — just a little, but don't tell.

"You know, Bells," he says as I sip steaming coffee. "The thing about tumbleweeds is they don't just roll around aimlessly." This piques my curiosity. "They spread seeds for new life with each tumble."

I glance up to see him poring over the words again, studying with genuine intrigue as though he's unearthed some great treasure hidden amid riddled clues in the ink. The wheels in his head are turning, an industrial revolution mass-producing ideas — full speed ahead. He's so steampunk — advanced and ahead of the game but always using a mechanical process to breakdown and reconstruct.

Oh, my dear, sweet Edward. Yes, mine. We are each other's, this is where we belong. I've found my person — the one my body first sang for the touch of when the follicles of my hair stood on end and were electrified by his presence, then my mind communed with his upon common and sacred ground, and now we've alloyed my tin soul to his copper. Bronze: the fusion of us.

But we won't move beyond this perfect friendship. Not now. Not yet. Maybe someday, or maybe never. As long as we know where we belong and whom we belong to, this will suffice.

A/N: My exciting (read with sarcasm) life in LAlaland has allowed me the opportunity to go to a Grammy afterparty this year. I'm stoked (read with no sarcasm), and I'm so happy to have these fun opportunities because of my wonderful hubby and his fabulous career in the entertainment industry. I'll post pictures on Instagram! ( )


	15. Chapter Fourteen: All the Pretty Faces

Chapter Fourteen: All the Pretty Faces

I pause mid-sip, eyes flashing to the reflection of the man on the other side of the room. Stylists are poking and prodding at me, making my body and hair red carpet worthy, but I suddenly cannot even feel them. He's all there is.

On his side of the giant room, another set of stylists tug off his tuxedo shirt to fix something, and holy fuck ... where in the holy hell did all those muscles come from? Those definitely weren't there the last time I saw him shirtless. Of course, that was two years ago, but nonetheless, how do they just pop up out of thin air? Because he certainly can't have the time to work out. I would know this because we spend that many hours together, and if he went to the gym he'd drag me along. We both know that wouldn't go over well.

I think I may be drooling; the makeup artist dabbing up my spittle confirms this.

Edward catches my eye in his own mirror, flashing a silly grin. "What is it, Bells?" he asks, as though my jaw dropping to the floor at the sight of him doesn't speak volumes for itself.

I shouldn't do it. It'll open a can of worms best left in the fudge of a little mountain town's gas station/bait-n-tackle shop. I shouldn't say anything; should filter my words.

I never do what I should.

"Where did all those muscles come from?" Yep. It's out there now, floating in the air between us and completely ignored by the dozen other people in the room. But they aren't ignored by him.

"It's easier to rollout of bed in the middle of the night and do one hundred push-ups," he answers, "than take a cold shower every night."

I'm the last person he sees every night, and I know what cold showers mean for guys. Sparks sizzle between us, alive and present.

It's funny - double mirrors - the game they play with your mind from all the reflections you can see. Reflection after reflection after reflection. And the reflection I see now is the flash of burning embers in his eyes. A shift is happening in our little infinity; a supernova in waiting.

He sees it. I see it. It's there between us, radioactive in its power and equally dangerous.

Time passes, and our eyes remain locked. We speak and laugh and look, but never break the connection we found in those mirrors.

I've never experienced a red carpet extravaganza before, but Edward assures me I'll be fine as the limousine pulls to a stop before a mass of clicking cameras and flashing bulbs. "Just don't trip," he says, grasping my hand, chilled by clutching tightly to a glass of champagne on the journey, and he steps from the car as the door is opens for us.

The rumbling of voices grows deafeningly loud, throwing off all other senses except his hand holding mine, and I step upon the crimson fabric and follow him into the lion's den. I'd follow him anyway, I'm sure of it.

This way! That way! the photographers call out to us. A million questions are thrown in Edward's direction, and he handles them with mastery. He even handles the ones directed my way with equal skill. How does he do this so well? I feel like the amateur I am.

But he doesn't stop, he never lets up; it's like the way he loves me without either of us knowing it. But I do know this, without any doubt in my mind: I am in love with Edward Masen. And nothing is going to slow this freight train we're on.


	16. Chapter Fifteen: En Pointe

Chapter Fifteen: En Pointe

I stare at him over the rim of my crystal glass. This place makes a mean muddled basil and lime gin martini, but I hardly notice; I'm too consumed by this revelation - newfound love. He's wondrous, Edward, parting the throngs of admiring, congratulating celebrities with firm grace. And here am I, drifting like an autumn leave, not a blip on their radar.

I don't mind. The night belongs to him. So do I.

He catches my eye across the room, smiling and shooting a wink my way. Should I tell him tonight? It feels as cliché as it sounds - realizing I'm in love with my best friend the same night he sweeps the Academy Awards by turning my silly novel into a film masterpiece. Everything he touches turns to gold ... including me and my black heart.

I swore a vow to myself two years ago to abstain until I knew I was in love. I just didn't think that would be with Edward. Anyone but him. He'd been broken but remade, and I only broken; I was no good for him, and we experienced the pain I could cause.

He sees past that - I know he does. How else would one excuse our tender, beautiful friendship. He was right, per usual, when he told me about the seeds my tumbleweed life had been planting, and I was equally right about the steady roots he has which hold me tight. Edward allows me to weather the storms. How can I not love him?

But it isn't what he does for me that makes this evolution of us - of me - possible. Contrary to all in my selfish life, it's him, body and soul, which has sought out and delivered me. I've surrendered before we've even begun.

"You're so beautiful," his warm breath teases the wisps of my brown, bobbed hair, tickling my cheek enough to place every nerve ending on red alert.

I swallow a million declarations and turn to him with what I pray is a neutral - friendly - smile. "Those stylists did wonders. I've never worn Armani before tonight."

His eyes flash, loosened by three or four Old Fashions he's consumed but as burning as ever. He knows what is his when he sees it. And I'm it.

"I'm not just talking about tonight, Lass." Fingertips trail down my jaw and neck and over my collarbone, until propriety demands he remove them from the path I feel they ache to travel.

We're standing so close together, certainly every person in the room has discovered what is still left unspoken between us. "Are you a little drunk, Edward?" I ask. This will sway my confession to the day or night, but one thing is certain, a confession there will be.

"My Irish blood is never drunk," he assures, the lopsided grin I love as equally as his heart making an appearance. "I don't have to be drunk to tell you you're lovely, my sweet Bel-"

"I'm in love with you." The words fly from my mouth of their own accord, out there to be met by blinking confusion. Fuck. Not the right time. Goddamn filter.

Edward takes the longest moment in the history of pauses to let my words marinade. "We've been through a lot together," he finally speaks, though not what I'm hoping to hear. He grabs my arms and the remnants of the martini spill over my hands. "When you say those words to me, I don't want rash or rushed syllables. Only soft and true and pure words, Isabella."

He's never called me by my full name, and everything feels like vortex of fuckery. I pull myself from his grasp and walk - run - toward the nearest exit I can find. It's dark and quiet and perfect for a shamed escape.

But I don't make it far. His legs are longer; his resolution firm, and I'm pushed against a darkened wall with his lips surrounding, biting, and owning my own.

There's no differentiating where one body stops and another begins. His breath is my own.


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Just Smut

Chapter Sixteen: Just Smut

Edward kisses my lips bruised, our tongues and mouths saying more in that moment than all the words held prisoner within our throats. He calls for the car as soon as we come up for air, and silence engulfs us the entire way to his home, our fingers so close I feel the static reacting between them. We don't touch, not yet, not here, for there will be no stopping once it begins.

When we arrive at his home, Edward opens the door and places his golden statue before a mirror on a table. It watches stoically beside his keys as he disarms the alarm. His back is to me, and I'm lost in the tense strain of his shoulders and the pulse beat at his neck, pounding and setting the sparrow fluttering to life.

I can't tell if he's hesitating, praying, or forcing himself to think. Hesitating: I wouldn't be surprised, not after the way we sizzled and burnt out before. Thinking: definitely something he does - too often, I might add. Praying: very Edward, though I'd prefer he worship in ecstasy. There isn't a bone in my body that wants to do any of the above; all I want is to feel. Just him and me and this living, breathing, supernova we've become.

I reach out and touch his tense back. "Edward..."

And all hesitancy is fleeting; vanquished by my voice in his ears.

His mouth is over mine and I cannot breathe. I don't want to. I hear the crashing of metal on the marble floor, and I've replaced the golden statue upon the table. He holds fast to the nape of my neck with one hand, and the other pushes away the clothing keeping us apart. When he enters me, filling my body up with his, my head falls back against the mirror, and back and back again with each wonderfully violent push of him in me.

We have our stolen moments of perfect passion before the need for pure intimacy shudders within us both. Edwards slips from me, pulling me from the table as our hands busy themselves with buttons and zippers. I grasp his hand and lead him down the hall to his room. He lays me on his bed, an offering to the gods as moonlight dances upon my ivory flesh.

And his mouth is there. The way he kisses and sucks and nips the tender spots on the inside of my thighs feels utterly different than anything we did before. Then, we were all fuck and no feel. Tonight is different in its entirety; I'm different and so is he.

Moist, hot breath and kisses, bitter from rye whisky and sweet from me, travel over my pelvis and stomach and breasts to my mouth. A trail of euphoria is left in their wake. When he enters me again, it's deep - achingly so; my knees are over his taught shoulders and my heels digging into his back, pressing him deeper.

"Bella, Bella, Bella," he whispers, my name a chant on his lips - a chorus of pleasure.

When his thumb circles me, my legs shake, my back arches from the bed, and a guttural, desperate scream pours from my lungs. He's swelling and bursting inside me, complete and spilling within me.

And I am undone.


	18. Chapter Seventeen: Because You're Mine

A/N: Howdy from Pointe Dume, Malibu. Thank you all for the lovely reviews and for taking time to read this and write them.

The Grammy's were great! Pretty faces, beautiful clothes (not Rhianna), and gin martinis.

Enjoy this chapter!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Chapter Seventeen: Because You're Mine

Edward is pressed against my back, as the hot California sun sinks into the Pacific. His lips calm the path of tickles left by his beard, and I close my eyes and revel in the touches. He's the best kind of distraction from the sickness I've been dealing with the last few weeks.

How does one go about telling their lover they've made a baby together? If there's a place to do it, this - the Malibu sunset and noisy waves - is the it. His hand splays over my flat stomach, but it won't be flat for long. I wonder how he'll take the revelation?

We're a work of poetry, he and I. We lit like dry brush, burnt out just as quickly, watered and waited, and have created new life.

I know Edward wants children. It's something he knew he'd never have with Alice, she was never well in their time together, but it isn't a topic he's pushed with me. Our time has been filled with love and burning passion. It just so happened that the antibiotics I was on two months ago for an ear infection neutralized my birth control. Obviously.

And now it's time for another confession.

"Eddie," I whisper in the blowing wind, turning toward him on our blanket.

"Hmm?" He's nearly asleep. Maybe I should wait. But I want to tell him. Now.

I play with the tattoos on his hand and forearm, and his eyes remain closed. "See," I begin, "there's just enough room here for a single-worded tattoo."

"Bella?" he asks, smiling sleepily.

I laugh and lean into his chest with a shake of my head, planting a kiss on his muscled, golden flesh. "I was thinking something like Brontë or Jameson."

He stills. These are names we talked about one night, drunk on Jameson and reading random pages of Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights aloud; the names we said we'd use if we ever got that far. We laughed and made love and woke up with headaches the next morning, agreeing we were both too old to get drunk. And here we are, at thirty-one and thirty-nine, becoming parents - bigger than any hangover.

We're so quite for the next moments; so still.

"This babe is gonna to be the best lookin' kid on this earth," he says, the Irish in his voice thick with emotion. His response is ridiculous and perfect. "I'm gonna be a Da..."

I lift up onto my elbow and study him closely, gauging his feelings on the matter. He looks a bit drunk off the thought. I think this is good.

Suddenly, he's on his feet, my Irish ninja man, and he's whooping and running toward the water at full speed. Fuck. He's gone mad.

He dives into the ocean, and surfaces moments later with his swim shorts hanging low on his hips. I know I'm getting close to the second trimester, because everyone's said pregnant women at that stage feel as horny as I do now.

Edward runs back to our blanket, freezing cold droplets of water cascading over him and onto me. He leans over me, green eyes light with laughter and happiness. "Can't wait to see you fat with my wee babe, Bells."

"Fat!" I yell as he jumps away from my kicking foot. Asshole. Perfect, wonderful fucker. "We'd better hire a chef for the house. There's no way I'm getting fat."

"Oh, you'll be fat, Lass. Fat and beautiful, and those knobs are gonna be so heavy and full." He eyes me and licks his lips. "I'm taking you home now."

And he does. And takes me higher and higher and higher.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A/N: Xs and Os


	19. Chapter Eighteen: Come Hither

A/N: You're all amazing. Rockstars. Keep shining. And thank you for excusing my iPhone writing, I know I make mistakes, and I appreciate you overlooking them.

xoxo

Q

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Chapter Eighteen: Come Hither

Ol' Blue Eyes croons of witchcraft, filling the tent around us with trumpets and trombones and clarinets, and Edward spins me in and out until my back is flat against his chest. We sway here and there, his expert feet leading me in this dance - an homage to many firsts for our new world.

Jameson toddles about in a gray suit with red suspenders; as handsome as his da. The two years since Jaime's birth have been ... just all the things. Ups and downs and highs and lows. I suffered a period of deep postpartum depression, but Edward held fast, stepping in as mother and father when my mind was set adrift, away from our child and stuck in a dark room with the curtains drawn.

He found an amazing doctor to walk me through my fears and pain. Tanya Madden, aided by the correct cocktail of medications, brought me down from the ledge. She's here, watching my us dance around and around and around.

Everyone I love and care for is with us this starlit night on a Malibu cliff above the Pacific. Wine flows freely, kisses sweetly, and romance merrily. Everything inside me aches for Edward as he slips me from his arms and hops onto the stage.

"Da!" Jameson calls out with the precious bubbly voice of a toddler, and reaches for Edward. Esme attempts to distract my son, but it's useless. He's decided he wants on that stage with his da, and that stage is where he will be.

"Well," Edward laughs, reaching down to hoist Jaime up to the stage and onto his shoulders. "This little man and I wanted to say a few words to all you kind folks out here tonight. You ready to count with Da, Lad?" He directs the final question to our boy, and covers the microphone to whisper something,

"One!" Jaime screams, causing feedback from the mic piercing our ears.

"Ah! Definitely me own son," Edward chuckles. "One: thank you all for joining us to celebrate the woman of me dreams stickin' herself to me for life." Laughter rumbles through the crowd. Edward holds up two fingers and Jaime continues the counting - screaming. "Two," Edward repeats, "I wanted to tell you all the story of how this night came to be."

I feel my face flush, and I look down at the bubbles rising in my champagne.

"Bells and I were quite content in our home. We had our little man, our yard and garden, and she had her writing desk by the bay window. Nothing was missing, and it still isn't, so marriage never felt necessary. As all of you are close to us, you all know this, but I want to share my heart with you anyway. Four months ago - this past May - Bells woke up in the middle of the night in horrid pain. The blood was everywhere, and we knew we lost our second pregnancy. There's nothing that can replace this in Bella's heart," he says. I look up to him, eyes blurred with tears. "Bells threw herself into her writing afterward, and in twelve weeks, she authored a complete novel. She has her writing, her titles of Author, Mummy, Badass-" another round of laughter follows, though more solemn because of the topic "-and she was content with it. Not me. I wanted to add a title to that line up: Wife. Jaime-"

"Me!" Jaime screams, and I choke-cry on my emotions.

"Aye. Jaime here asked me why his mum and I weren't married. How the feck - sorry -" he apologizes for the Irish-tainted curse used in front of our man. I've gone soft, I know. Motherhood has done that to me. "Excuse me, how the bloody hell does a child catch these things?"

"Not much better on the wordage, Eddie," I call out with a smile.

"Apologies, Lass." He winks. "Jaime and I were on the same page, you see. The little man wanted to see his mum properly taken care of, even though she's quite capable of caring for herself. What the lad meant was he wanted to make sure her heart was claimed and cared for.

"He helped me propose, wee Jameson. We took Bells to Dublin, asked her to marry me on an Irish summer day, and planned this whole wedding with but a handful of weeks. She's amazing, right? She put this all together that fast." Esme and Rosalie laugh from the table beside me. They were the planners, not me.

"This is the happiest I've ever been, and I cannot wait for more."

"Free!" Jaime yells, counting three in his sweet voice.

"Ah, three, yes. Well, three: Carlisle offered to pay for the whiskey tonight, so please enjoy yourselves."

The mood is light an gleeful once again as Edward and Jaime leave the stage and make their way toward me. My silly, ridiculous, ginger-haired boys.

"I love you, Lass," Edward says, smiling broadly as he kisses the tip of my nose.

"Love you, ass," Jaime tells me in agreement with his da. Laughter, love. I'm complete.

xxxxxxxxxxx

ps. Y'all probably think you're in for the fluff from me, but I'd like to remind you of the Queen of Angst. You've been warned.

;-P


	20. Chapter Twenty: Lady Lay

Chapter Twenty: Lady Lay

There is absolutely nothing in this world as good as making love with my husband. He knows the tune my body sings, and plays each note with expertise. He knows the spot under my right ear, the one he sucks and licks and nibbles until I'm giggling like a dork in the middle of throws of passion. Five years of marriage and he still wants me as badly as I want him.

Edward owns me. Perfectly.

This morning, when I wake to his mouth between my legs - the gentle swipe of his tongue over my sensitive flesh - I smile, moan, and allow him to feast upon me. He knows me better than my own heart knows me. As well as I know him.

So, when I return the favor and Edward sits up in his needy lust to grab hold of my tits the way he loves, I know the moment something changes; the moment that changes us forever. His solid length goes lax in my mouth, and when my eyes flash to his, there is pure, unadulterated panic.

We both felt it. That hard, pebbly lump in my left breast.

Without a moment to move or breathe or think, I'm pulled off him and he has me on my back with my arm above my head while his fingers search out that evil knot.

There's nothing, there's nothing, there's nothing. And then there's something. It's there's, hidden under the mounds of flesh and fat and glands which make up the biology of a breast. It's there, screaming in protest at being discovered. It's there, wicked and foreboding and taunting.

It's there. And Edward's eyes, full of fear, say everything.

It's suddenly a living, breathing thing between us.

It's in our room, on our bed; in our hands.

It's here.

xxxxxxxx

A/N: Angst, see. Stick with me.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One: Boom Clap

A/N: Deep breathe, people. The past chapters aren't angst...not by my standard. Stick with me.

Chapter Twenty-One: Boom Clap

Boom-Clap!

Silence as loud as thunder strikes the room, filling every corner and space and all the infinite in-betweens with deafening quiet. I forget to breathe; I'm sure Edward does as well.

When at last my lungs scream in pain for air, my quivering lip falls from my between my teeth and a strangled, gasping cry escapes as I body reacts to the news. The doctor focuses on me with pitying eyes. He deals with this - the telling part - everyday. I don't. I never thought I'd come to this place.

It's stage two. We've caught the cancer early, and there's a great chance we can beat it. The doctor has recommended an aggressive treatment: a double mastectomy, radiation, a clean diet.

I can beat this.

Fuck, I will beat this.

Jameson is at his friend's house this afternoon, a fellow second grader who has a whole and healthy Mommy. Nothing like me. Not this mess I am.

I look up to Edward, sitting so silent one would think he's a statue. But there's that twitch in his jaw that he gets when he's so angry he's about to burst, but refuses the temptation. I know he's holding it in for my sake, but I'm numb; I'm outside my damaged body and am looking on from another place in the room.

We travel home in continued silence. There's an unmistakeable tension between us. It's the part where he should tell me we'll get through this together - we'll be okay. But it's not. He goes ahead of me into the house without waiting or holding the door - something he's never done - and I have to run to keep up with him.

When I open the door, he's standing with his arms against the wall and his head hanging between. He's thinking of Alice, I know. He'll never admit that, not on the day his wife gets such perilous news. I want to remind him these two cancers, though both terrifying, are not the same. But there's no use. Not right now.

He's as broken as I am, and we both need our moment of reflection before we attack this thing and kick its ass.

xxxxxxx

A/N: **holds you all on my shoulder as you cry** **wipes your noses** Don't freak out. xoxo, Q


	22. Chapter Twenty-two: Devil in Disguise

Chapter Twenty-two: Devil in Disguise

This beautiful April day, spring fresh and new and young, is tainted with chunks of brown floating on the light breeze. I won't brush my hair inside. I refuse to toss it away like trash; I'd much rather the birds find it and sew it into their nests - comfort new life with a fading one.

Edward has thrown himself into work, and I don't blame him for his distance. He's been through enough in his years; I'm just another painful reminder of mortality.

Though Jameson's school activities keep him occupied and blind to the disfunction of his family, Edward and I have no such luck.

In the year since I first heard the diagnosis, I've done much self-evaluation. Hell, what else is there to do when you're nauseas and hurting? Instead of overdosing on Vicodin like I oftentimes would like, I'm forced to recall happier times and convince myself this is but a fleeting moment of pain in a world of wonders.

This is much easier said than done.

The only thing truly keeping me from pulling the proverbial trigger of self-destruction is the thought of Edward's face when he got home to find me lifeless with a bottle's worth of pain pills stuffed down my throat. The alleviation of all my pain isn't worth the ache he would endure at my selfishness.

Or maybe I'm the selfish one. It shouldn't surprise me if this is the case. Maybe I'm too afraid Edward would be relieved to find his constant burden brought to an end that doesn't involve a hospice with me shitting myself and needing to be cleaned up. Maybe I don't want to go silently into the night, but would rather be brought down in flaming glory. I don't really know what keeps me from ending it all, but something does.

There are three things I'm certain of right now:

One, cancer is a nasty bitch.

Two, ganja is a god-send.

Three, beating this will be the final stage of my evolution. If I get that far.

xxxxxx

A/N: Much love to you all.


	23. Chpter Twenty-Three: Building from Bones

Chapter Twenty-Three: Building from Bones

"The balance of life and death teeters on a fine edge. There's nothing beautiful in that balance. It has a way of bringing out the best and worst in us.

When my husband withdrew into himself like the moon fading into a blue and orange dawn, I knew he was losing the battle for me. There was no blame to place; his shoulders bore heavy pain in the wake of illness and life and destruction.

I realized in that moment of the world was testing me, weeding out the weakness in me.

It's a funny thing, love. The idea of my pain was too much to bear, but when the prognosis opened our eyes to mortality, a light switched in his head. He withdrew when I fought the easiest part but fought for me when all was nigh to lost.

Suddenly, work and projects and distractions could wait. His sole focus became my survival - for our son, for him, for us, for me. He built me up from bones, and that is when evolution became revolution; a battle to bend the will of nature to our own.

And I was complete."

I close the book, and lift my teary gaze to a crowd of eye mirroring my own. Speaking at the AliBells Foundation, a program Jameson started three years ago when he graduated college, is an honor. The money this foundation has donated to help raise awareness of the importance of early detection has saved many lives.

I'm a seven-year survivor.

A seven-year warrior.

And Edward, grinning up to me with wrinkles created by more smiles in the past seven years than a lifetime of years combined, is my brightest star.


	24. Evolved

Chapter Twenty-Four: Follow Me Down

We can run away, get away from it all and disappear from our problems.

This was me, once upon a time; troubled by nothing more than my own satisfaction.

But for all I am, hardened by life and pain, missing breasts I once treasured - now replaced with silicone packing and tattooed nipples in the shape of stars and feathers - I'm sweetened and softened by his constant presence in my life.

The way we make love is different, though equally beautiful to its former violent passion. Like me, like my body and cells, Edward and I have evolved at a molecular level. The ups and downs of life give and take from our constitution, but nevertheless continue in growth.

Edward is above me in our bed, following me down into the cotton fields-worth of blankets and running away with me into bliss. We set each other free as sparrows on the prairie, and I sing high and pure for him and him alone as his body fills me and holds me tight.

I was a writer once, I was a confused girl once; I was a mess once. Now? Now I am still writer, and now wife, lover, mother, grandmother to a two-month-old infant girl named Lark; ass-kicker of cancer.

"You're the love I've always known was waiting for me, Lass," Edward whispers - moans - before he comes undone between my thighs.

We're wrinkles and gray hair between ginger and chocolate; we're aged in wisdom and experience. And we hold each other tighter and tighter still, ruling our world as creatures of habitual love.

And my evolution has peaked.

XxxxxxxxxX

A/N:

Well, there you have it.

Thank you for those who've read and commented, and shared in mine and Bella's journey.

Thank you for the love.

Forever,

Quinn. Madi.


End file.
